


follow the red string

by finnickyfox



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Claudia Character Death, Comatose Peter, Empath Stiles Stilinski, Half-feral Yearning, Healing Magic, Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Stiles Stilinski, Knitting Magic, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Stiles Stilinski, Peter Hale Takes Care of Stiles Stilinski, Powerful Stiles Stilinski, Red String of Fate, Revenge, Sharing a Bed, Stiles Stilinski Takes Care of Peter Hale, Stiles is 17-19 when Peter flirts, Tenderness, Then Not Coma Peter, You've Heard of Pining Now Get Ready For, for the Hale Fire, pack of two
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:13:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25782685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finnickyfox/pseuds/finnickyfox
Summary: “I have a confession."Humoring Stiles, Peter lowers his voice in a whisper of mock-seriousness. “Care to share?”“My red string stopped knitting healing triskelions three weeks ago. I’ve been lying.”Peter laughs. “Sweet one, I know. I can hear your heartbeat stutter and your guilt is heavy in the bond.”“You don’t mind?”“I’m far more selfish than you think, dear heart. I need you to want me,” Peter says, “with or without your strings.”/~\This is a story about a half-feral magic boy healing a half-feral comatose werewolf. This is a story about magic and revenge and learning how to be taken care of. This is a love story.
Relationships: Peter Hale & Stiles Stilinski, Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 82
Kudos: 668





	1. to knit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was inspired by [this tumblr post](https://snuppie.tumblr.com/post/189302449670/knits-u-a-blanket-out-of-our-red-string-of-fate) of: *knits u a blanket out of our red string of fate* and I originally started this fic for steter week pack of two. These first 2 chapters are the set-up to their love story.
> 
> this is not a soulmates world but stiles' magic comes in the form of strings and the one connecting him to Peter is red, so make of that as you will with your personal thoughts on soulmates!! to a yearning half-feral magicboy, you can pry the red string of fate legend out of his cold dead hands
> 
> warning for claudia's death in the first chapter and glossing over some grief. also quick mention of the sheriff drinking

The first time a teacher finds knitting needles in Stiles’ backpack, she sends him to the principal. Stiles is sent to the principal _a lot_. 

Mom never gets mad at him for it. She says the worst thing he can do is ignore his magic and if it’s telling him to move around or talk or do _something_ to get the Magic Buzzes out, then do it. Mom pretends she agrees with the school that Stiles is a “problem child” and then she takes Stiles out for ice cream after. 

But the day the principal presents the needles, Mom _giggles_. 

“Weapons are a very serious matter, Mrs.Stilinski,” the principal says. 

Mom pulls out a ball of yarn from her purse and hands it over to Stiles, snatching his normal knitting needles from the principal and handing them over.

Stiles starts a row of easy stitches and the world falls away.

Babcia taught him how to knit because he was bored. When he started finger-knitting his magic strings, she found him _special_ needles. His strings didn’t like the special needles at first, but Babcia said magic is trials and errors and _if at first you don’t succeed, try and try and try again._

Dad says she never should have told Stiles that because he’s already “stubborn as a mule”. Babcia told Stiles lots of things, like that he is Magic’s trial and error incarnate. She told him that he has Buzzes because her magic was being passed down to him instead of Mom. 

Mom says nothing is a mistake. Dad says to clean up mistakes. Babcia told him to make _all_ the mistakes and then make _more_.

After he normal-knits for the principal, it basically becomes a school rule for Stiles to knit in class (as long as his needles aren’t metal). The Magic Buzzes want him to use his strings but it doesn’t mind normal yarn if Stiles soaks magic into it at home. Normal knitting quiets down the Buzzes to a ticklish humming and he can mostly sit still and pay attention in class.

It takes a few trials and errors but Stiles tries and tries and he eventually figures out how to push magic into regular yarn. He succeeds first with a pair of Concentration Socks.

At home, he plays memory card games with Mom, has Dad quiz him on the Guinness World Book of Records, and spends hours focusing on drawing inside the lines in his coloring books. During every activity, he keeps yarn on him, hoping super, _super_ hard for it to absorb his concentration like a sponge. 

Stiles starts pulling in A+s on his spelling tests with his new socks and Mom convinces Dad to drive them out to the big movie theater on the weekend.

“My sweet magic Mischief,” Mom says and kisses the top of his head.

Stiles knits Warm Scarves, Go-Away-Anger Headbands, Sweet Dreams Blanket, and his favorite—the hacky sack that helps take away his Magic Buzzes when he plays with it during recess. 

/☽\

“It won’t be so hard when you’re older,” Mom says. She rocks Stiles in her lap while he cries over his hacky sack exploding. “Your magic is too big for your body right now but you’ll grow into it.”

Babcia had said all ninety-six years of her magic went into his little body. His hacky sack only lasted four days. 

Stiles stops crying long enough to ask, “Am I going to blow up?”

“No, honey,” Mom says. She holds him tighter. It hurts a little but Stiles doesn’t say anything. “That’s why we have your special needles.” She presses a kiss to the top of his head. “Why don’t we work more with your real string, okay?”

Stiles sniffles. “Okay.”

Stiles’ real strings are invisible to other people, even Mom and Babcia. He’s tangled in glowing colors from head to toe like a mummy. Sometimes, certain colors fall out of the tangles and drag on the ground behind Stiles like a tail. 

“There’s lotsa red,” Stiles says.

“What does the red mean, honey?”

Stiles climbs out of Mom’s lap and follows the glow of red to where it ends a few feet away. He picks up the string and closes his eyes. Soft fur brushes against his legs and a tongue licks his arm.

Giggling, he opens his eyes and says, “Dog.”

Mom takes his hand. “We can watch All Dogs Go To Heaven and I’ll cook you some bacon.”

Stiles shakes his head. “No. I have to sit outside at night. The moon says so.”

“The moon?”

Stiles nods. “The red says the moon says so.”

Mom picks him up and holds him too tight again. 

She sits with him in the garden once the sun sets and Stiles shows off how fast his special needles move now. All the school hours of normal knitting has made magic easier and harder. The more normal knitting patterns he learns, the quicker his real strings transform. Keeping his special needles floating makes his head hurt now, though, because he’s becoming used to his hands doing the work.

It’s almost sunrise before his special needles fall into his lap. A grown dog the size of puppy nuzzles Stiles’ knee. The red string around its neck snaps off and winds back up Stiles’ arm. The dog licks his toes and then runs off, passing through the backyard fence like a ghost.

“Done,” Stiles says sleepily. He lifts his arms for Mom to carry him to bed.

“What kind of dog was it?”

“Like that movie with the snow dog. ‘Member Mommy? The others didn’t like him but,” Stiles yawns, “he got the medicine.”

“Balto?”

Stiles nods against Mom’s shoulder. He liked Balto. He wishes he could follow his Balto-dog but he’s too sleepy. He’s never made a dog before. He made a mouse once with purple string and the next day someone found their missing cat.

He hopes magic-Balto does something nice like that. The moon thinks he’s important so he must be a good doggy.

“My sweet magic Mischief,” Mom says, kissing the top of his head and tucking his Sweet Dreams blanket around him. She sounds sad. Stiles will normal-knit a Happy Beanie next. 

/❀\ ❀❀❀❀

Babcia taught Stiles how to calm down. She taught him how to use knitting for magic. She taught him about life and said Mom would help him with the rest, of the things in-between. 

Most magic kids are supposed to have teachers, Babcia said, but Stiles is special, and not in the way that Mom says he’s special because he’s her kid and she loves him. Stiles is _magic_ -special. 

Babcia said Stiles is lucky because most teachers are rules, rules, rules. She said Stiles is meant to go wild and play with his magic—trials and errors and try and try and mistakes.

Stiles is eight now and Babcia has been dead for two years and Mom’s sick. Mom is supposed to help him when magic fits his body and he is not big yet so she _can’t_ be sick and that means this must be a mistake. 

Stiles is very good at fixing mistakes.

Stiles knits seven pairs of Concentration Socks, a pair for every day of the week. They don’t help Mom’s confusion and forgetting— _error._ He knits a new Happy Beanie with the bright yellow yarn he stuffed down his shirt on weekend picnics with Dad. The Beanie helps, a little— _success_. Sweet Dreams blanket works, too— _success._ Headband for Health soaked in cough syrup— _error_. 

Mom forgets to remind him about his special needles. Life is all normal yarn trials with no time for strings. The Magic Buzzes _ache_ in his bones like those little zings that shoot up his legs when he jumps down from fences and his feet hit the ground really hard.

He can’t finish the Calm Mittens he’s working on because he’s too angry. Dad took Mom to the hospital and said Stiles couldn’t come along this time.

Stiles doesn’t like being home alone. He’d make a good evil villain. With all the loneliness and anger and sadness, he could knit Swatches Of Hurt to slip inside his enemy's pockets or pillowcases. 

Stiles’ only enemy right now is invisible. Maybe that means Mom’s sickness needs something invisible to fix it! Stiles touches his strings for the first time in days and spends hours sorting through all the different kinds looping around his limbs. None of them magic-speak about medicine or health.

The Magic Buzzes grow angrier and angrier so he finds the yellow string that pulsed with flowers and made his nose tickle with a sneeze. The house is loneliness and anger and sadness—he really would make a good evil villain—so Stiles goes outside to the garden.

He pulls weeds and soaks up sunshine while his special needles click-clack quietly next to him, creating a long daisy chain only he can see. The yellow string doesn’t slide out of his tangles and go away to wherever, or whoever, it’s supposed to go. It’s the first creation to stay with him—slithers around his ankle in a hug.

He keeps up his trials of pushing healing magic into normal knitting even though it is all error and mistake. The Magic Buzzes hurt too much to be ignored so he works with his strings again even though Mom doesn't sit with him anymore.

Stiles’ strings become obsessed with daisy chains made up of all kinds of colorful flowers. Every time he gets to the end of the string his special needles are knitting, the flowers wrap around one of his ankles. The daisy chains trail behind him everywhere he goes, like invisible toilet paper stuck to his shoe. 

They unwind off of Stiles’ ankles a year after his special needles touched the first yellow string. The tied together stems break apart and thousands of flowers float and spin around the hospital room.

Stiles climbs into the hospital bed even though the nurses get mad at him for it. He kisses the top of Mom’s head.

Mom looks up and her eyes follow the daisy twirling closest to them.

Stiles clutches on to Mom’s hospital gown and asks, “You can see my magic?”

Mom’s fingers twitch and a flower floats down onto her hand. She says those four words she hasn’t said in so long that Stiles almost forgot them. “My sweet magic Mischief.”

Stiles cries. The flowers slowly float down lower and lower until they cover her in a blanket.

/~\

Magic was Mom and Stiles’ thing.

Dad buys yarn of all types and colors but he doesn’t understand.

He doesn’t understand what Magic Buzzes means and doesn’t know what it looks like when the Buzzes get bad. He doesn’t like Stiles getting sent to the principal.

He buys more yarn and tries to ask Stiles what he sees. Stiles has stopped talking so he can’t yell that he “sees” with his _real_ strings, his _invisible_ magic. 

He knows Dad is trying but Stiles is _done_ with magic and he wants Dad to try with normal things—pack his school lunches and work less and stop drinking and just be _Dad_. 

Strings pool around Stiles’ feet from neglect. The worst by far is the _red_. Red’s always been the one string that never ends, that creates and transforms into things without ever being all used up. The string starts somewhere tangled near his neck and knots around the strings by his chest.

The cluster of red grows bigger the more Stiles ignores it. 

Stiles fights the Magic Buzzes. More like Magic Lightning, now. The school counselor says his hands shaking are from anxiety. He doesn’t tell her that sometimes he wakes up shaking all over, that he has magic strings that burn his skin from neglecting them.

/(red)\

Stiles dreams of his old hacky sack that exploded and wakes up screaming. 

“Stiles, it’s okay. It’s okay,” Dad yells over Stiles’ screaming, “it was just a dream.”

Stiles fights Dad’s hug. “Magic Buzzes,” he gasps out. Since he stopped using his special needles, the burning strings have made him feel like he’s covered head to toe in blisters.

It’s not just the hug that hurts, though, it’s— 

“Hospital,” Stiles says. “Hospital. My magic.”

“Stiles, I don’t—”

“Mom would take me to the hospital,” Stiles says without thinking. It’s the first full sentence he’s said to Dad in months. It’s the first time he’s said _Mom_. 

Stiles doesn’t see auras like Mom could but he gets _tingles,_ more so with her gone. The house has tingled with darkness for a long time. Dad’s hand is still on Stiles’ shoulder— _burns, burns, burns—_ and the tingles feel like how Stiles’ heart hurt when the daisy chains broke.

Quietly, Dad asks, “Do you need your yarn?”

Stiles shakes his head. 

“Okay. Let’s go.”

Stiles summons his special needles from the back of his closet. Once they’re in the car, Stiles touches the red knot. It’s mad at him for abandoning it, pulsing fire and gnashing teeth. It tingles like the hurt of broken daisy chains, too.

“Long-term care ward,” Stiles says. Then, in a small voice, “I don’t want to explode.”

Dad talks in the same strong voice Mom used when she’d hold him too tight. “You’re not going to explode. I won’t let you.”

Stiles blurts, “My hands shake because of the Magic Buzzes.”

Dad takes a hand off the steering wheel but Stiles shrieks before he can touch him.

“Everything hurts!”

“Stiles,” Dad says, both hands on the wheel and knuckles white, “I need you to tell me everything about Magic Buzzes, _right now_. Everything.”

And Stiles does. If he doesn’t talk, he’ll think of the hacky sack. He explains his magic is too big and the invisible strings and the red knot.

“So, it helps people?” Dad asks. The tingles coming from Dad are shaky and scared and relieved.

“I guess. Mom said I’ll be able to knit what I want and learn other magic when I’m bigger.”

They pull into the hospital parking lot. Dad unbuckles his seatbelt and turns to Stiles. “What now?”

“The...the red knot says you stay here.”

Dad looks like he wants to argue. He didn’t get weird about how the red knot speaks so Stiles barrels on. “Magic protects me,” Stiles says, because he knows this in his bones and Babcia said so. “Whatever needs me in there, magic will make sure no one stops me.”

Dad takes a big breath and then nods. He nods again. “Okay.” He reaches to touch Stiles but remembers in time and stops. “Okay. I’ll wait here.”

The red knot trembles and Stiles scrambles out of the car. He takes a moment to grit through the pain and say, “Thanks, Dad.”


	2. to knit you a promise

Dad starts trying.

He’s not very good at it but a month after Stiles’ nightmare, it no longer hurts when Dad touches him. Dad’s so excited that he hugs Stiles and keeps reaching out for him like he’s making sure Stiles is still here. He ruffles Stiles' hair and pats his shoulder and the grip on the back of his neck when he gets in trouble is gentle now.

Dad still drinks and works a lot but he explains the hospital bills and it doesn’t make it _okay_ —Stiles knows from the tingles that Dad’s relieved to have so much work away from home—but it’s better. He’s not good at taking care of Stiles physically but he works hard on understanding Stiles’ magic. He sits with Stiles for hours after long shifts and makes sure Stiles knits away all the strings that have been piling up for months. He drives Stiles to the hospital when he can and shows Stiles how to take the bus for when he can’t.

Stiles’ red string is a never-ending knitting project.

It led him to a man in some kind of coma. The red string shows _fire_ and speaks a real word— _Peter_. Stiles was right—his magic makes sure he gets to where he needs to be. The nurses never see Stiles. It’s kind of awesome being invisible like his string. He wishes Mom was here because this is Big Magic outside of strings and he has to go through it all alone.

Well, not alone. He has Peter.

/~\

“You give bad tingles,” Stiles says one day. “It feels like my house does and daisy chains and like when I almost exploded before I found you.”

Stiles brings yarn and normal needles now. He’s getting stronger. He can magic-knit and normal-knit at the same time. “I’m making you Go-Away-Anger swatches. I’ll slip them in your pillow. Maybe I can work on making my Sweet Dreams blanket go invisible, too, and bring it here.” Stiles sighs. “I need magic books. Mom was supposed to teach me. I don’t really know what I’m doing. Like, what _is_ that?”

He stares at his special needles working furiously above Peter. No matter how much he clears his mind and focuses on the red string, it tells him nothing other than Peter’s name. Every day, it knits the same large swirls that drop on Peter’s chest and sink into his body with a bright red glow. 

It’s awesome-looking. But weird. 

Stiles goes back to his Go-Away-Anger. “I hope it’s helping. The pain tingles aren’t as bad but you still feel angry and sad.” Stiles keeps his eyes on the dark blue yarn. He says, “I feel sad, too.”

/~\

A new kid moves to school. He wheezes and sits with Stiles during lunch. No one ever sits with Stiles—he had friends when he was the class clown that always got in trouble but then he became the Yarn Weirdo. Some kids call him Spinster, which is so funny that Stiles doesn’t correct them on how little sense that makes.

Green string forms around Stiles’ wrist as the new kid whines about how P.E. is after lunch. It makes Stiles pause his mindless finger-knitting between bites of a granola bar. Babcia said Stiles should run free with his magic.

Stiles hides his hands under the lunch table and ignores the yarn he had just wound through his fingers. Time for a trial.

He listens to the new kid and pictures how his special needles float in the air, careful to not actually summon them. He glances through the crack in the planks of the lunch table. The new green string twitches. It makes a sad little effort of slithering off of him before drooping back around his wrist. _Error._

It takes weeks of floating his special needles at home after he’s done seeing Peter. His special needles hate hovering without purpose but Stiles is determined to figure out how his magic makes them float without strings.

Throughout the sleepless nights, Stiles discovers that the Magic Buzzes slip outside of his body in more places than just his fingertips, spreading his magic out all around him. Stiles pokes around the thrumming running through his bones, following the trail to a pulsing ball of energy around his ribcage. 

“It’s like my magic is a hamster and I’m the hamster ball,” Stiles tells Peter. “Like, the magic-hamster walks and pushes and controls where the me-ball goes.” Stiles gnaws on a normal needle, thinking. He brandishes the needle out of his mouth and points it in Peter’s direction, perking up. “I have to be the hamster _and_ the ball. I have to control where the ball moves.”

Stiles deals with a _lot_ of errors. This is the in-between Mom was supposed to help him with. But Babcia had told him to go _wild_ and use mistakes as his teacher and Stiles refuses to be a lost cause.

The green string is kindly patient as he works on splitting his mind into two paths. One part focused on his energy source and one part focused on the image of _lungs_. 

Two months of sitting with the new kid, Scott, and Stiles finally figures it out on the day they’re being tested for how fast they can run a mile. Underneath the lunch table, the green string transforms without any needles. Stiles is teaching Scott how to whistle, how to blow air. Every time Stiles blinks, on the back of his eyelids he sees his green string stitching together.

The bell rings and the green lungs float up and disappear in Scott’s chest.

Scott finishes the mile in eight minutes.

Stiles passes out.

It’s pretty awesome.

/~\

Stiles tells Peter about it. “I’m going to keep using special needles with you because you’re too important to mess up.” Stiles lies in bed curled up next to Peter between the comings and goings of nurses. He’s exhausted from working on needleless magic so he doesn’t normal-knit today. “Do you think I can start my own strings? I can’t make him magic-lungs all the time but I could probably make his inhaler better.”

Stiles lifts his arm and runs his fingers through his strings like a harp. The stories they tell are murmurs of fuzzy images and the barest prickles of sensations. “I think I’m starting to be in control of what they’ll become.” Stiles drops his arm and tucks himself closer into Peter’s side. “It’s scary. I don’t know what to do.”

/~\

“I don’t think I like Scott,” Stiles admits. He paces, restless as his magic sorts itself out in his changing body. His bones hurt in a normal way, finally growing to fit his Magic Buzzes. “I feel bad that I don’t feel bad. It’s just he’s,” Stiles trails off and throws his arms up in the air.

“He’s like Dad,” Stiles says after walking several loops around the hospital room. “Well, Dad’s better because he knows about magic. But he doesn’t _know_ -know magic, you know? I love Dad. But he’s also so...normal. Ugh,” Stiles groans and throws himself into the chair by Peter’s hospital bed. “Why is everything so confusing?”

Stiles works on the deep breathing exercises the school counselor taught him for panic attacks. He lets the world fall away into magic. 

He moves his mind alongside the magic wrapped around his red string that's forming swirls—triskelions, Stiles had learned.

He melts into whispers of _Peter_ and becomes the string, feeling himself twisting and pulling into shapes of soothing and protecting and healing.

He spreads further, hears the tick-tock coming from the orange string that grew in class during his daydreaming about energy drinks. The string brims with the promise of caffeine.

Nestled in his magic, Stiles returns to settle in his body. His nose tickles with the electrifying zaps of the energy source buzzing in his chest.

He touches the tingles in the air with his hands, the emotions a wavy type of mist. The intensity of Peter’s emotions has dulled down over the past few years. 

“I’ll make you feel happy someday,” Stiles says. “Dad says I do magic to help people but I think I just like being needed.”

Stiles works on his homework due next month, mumbling aloud as he does so, and then climbs in bed with Peter. 

“Red string, red string, red string,” Stiles says under his breath. “Triskelion. Peter. Heal.” Stiles traces swirls on the back of Peter’s burned hand. “I’m glad you need me,” Stiles says.

/~\

Stiles controls his strings. 

He gets Nudges of suggestions as if Beacon Hills residents are flashing the Bat-Signal at him for help. He listens, sometimes—for the hungry children and tired workers and a bird out in the preserve with a broken wing.

He hears about his classmate’s kidnapped sister and weaves together multiple strings for the first time. He loses himself in a trance of strings threading together into an intricate compass. He sleeps for two days straight once he finishes.

When he wakes up, Dad hugs him and says they found the little Boyd girl, unharmed and safe.

After that, Stiles is fluent in string-talk, easily swapping images and sensations with them to create what he wants.

Staying grounded in the normal world becomes harder, his focus on the present hazier. He checks out the kid's section of the craft store, picking out other forms of string work than yarn. He buys kits for friendship bracelets, potholder looming, and lanyards. His mind sharpens with each new hobby, memorizing the new patterns and the new patterns within the patterns.

He tinkers with spilling his magic into physical forms, taking concepts like Concentration Socks and pushing the limits farther, better, steadier. Alcohol has noticeably gone down in the house after Dad accepted a mental health bracelet. Scott accepts Stiles’ friendship bracelet with a winning smile, not knowing it’s secretly an anchor for easy breathing.

Scott might not fit into Stiles’ world but he shows Stiles what it’s like to be a teenager and not a hamster ball. He sits with Stiles in their shared classes but hangs out with other kids during lunch and after school. That’s okay—Stiles works on his physical magic during lunch and he has Peter always.

/~\

Peter gets the brunt of Stiles’ _try and try and try again_. His ankles are covered in bracelets for different types of healing, anchors for relief against physical aches and negative mental health. 

The red string continues knitting triskelions for Peter and Stiles mostly knits his other strings for Peter as well.

A hulk fist for power and strength.

A caterpillar cocoon for transforming into something new—just as good or better than before. 

Stiles even makes Peter daisy chains. He cries as he knits the flowers but he knows they brought Mom peace and Peter needs that. And maybe he needs to feel the release of daisy chains for the people he lost, too. The red string is more easily persuaded into talking with Stiles now and it reveals flashes of faces with the fire.

Stiles magically exhausts himself in knitting a new Sweet Dreams blanket at the slowest pace to pour in every ounce of magic he’s able to. He uses yarn that he cuddled while napping beside Peter.

/~\

Peter isn’t all work and no play. Stiles talks to Peter about everything and anything.

“You’re my best friend,” Stiles says and then fake barfs because that’s embarrassing. He laughs. “That means you have to listen to all my theories about how the moon landing was faked by magic—”

/~\

“I think I’m gay,” Stiles tells Peter after his first day of high school. “That was rude of me—hi, Peter, how are you, may the force be with your triskelion.” Stiles throws his backpack on the floor and sits on the edge of Peter’s bed. He waits a beat, feeling the red string for any kind of answer. It purrs the familiar _Peter._ “Okay, back to me. So, there’s this senior and oh my _god_ , Peter, he is H-A-W-T _hot_.” 

/~\

“Actually, I’m bisexual,” Stiles says a few months later. “That means I don’t like just one gender. Maybe you know that. I wish you could talk to me.”

/~\

“Lydia’s been watching me. I think she suspects something. Is it bad that I’m excited instead of scared? 

“She feels like daisy chains and that was enough to turn me off of my crush but she’s not sick. I sat behind her in Chem and she feels...not-Scott, not-Dad, y’know, not normal. She feels like _more_.” 

Stiles paces. His energy source has centered since his last growth spurt, but he thinks magic will always be too big for his body to contain. 

“But she’s caught up in dumb normal shit like social hierarchies,” Stiles grouches. “And not the smart hierarchy of survival and predator, but the shallow kind of jocks and nerds.”

Stiles flops to lie on the floor. He taps into his magic center and stretches his mind outside of his body, weaving his strings into a navy sky on the hospital ceiling. He creates twinkling stars and a crescent moon that waxes to full.

“You’re more, too,” Stiles says. “Even if you’re not something. You’ll never be _normal_ -normal because you’re Peter and red string and mine.”

/~\

Some days, Stiles likes to do nothing but lie next to Peter and zone out. He watches his special needles, only ever used for Peter now, and gives the triskelions his undivided attention. He fell down the rabbit hole of triskelion meanings years ago, prattled on all about it to Peter. It helped incorporate all types of symbols into his magic but he’s still unsure why his red string chose the triskelion. Three is the magic number, though, so Stiles figures it probably gives an extra kick of healing. 

Stiles' life can be boiled down to three things—himself, magic, and Peter. 

“Did you know pinky promises originally meant that if you broke the promise you were supposed to cut off your finger? Seems pretty fair to me.” Stiles hooks his pinky with Peter’s. “There’s also this thing—red thread of fate. There’s different interpretations about which finger the thread is tied to but it’s an East Asian legend of soulmates being connected to each other by a red string—red thread.” Stiles flushes and feels silly for it. “Um. Thought that was interesting...because string magic and...thread. Red.” Stiles curls his other hand around the red knot sitting on his chest. “I know my red string brought me to you for healing,” Stiles says, “but you’d be a good soulmate, I think. You’re a good best friend.”

When Peter’s triskelion session is done, the special needles falling onto Peter’s legs, Stiles slows the end of the red string flying back to him. He redirects it to wrap around his and Peter’s connected pinkies.

“I promise,” Stiles says, letting everything fill in the blank space. The red string hums _Peter_ and returns to its tangled knot.

As he unhooks their pinkies, the urge to kiss the top of Peter’s head drifts up to the surface of Stiles’ thoughts. He always listens to his instincts, so he doesn’t resist the silly urge.

He kisses the side of Peter's head, lips brushing over the scars preventing hair growth. “I don’t know why I’m being so sentimental,” Stiles says. “But thank you.”

/☽\

Stiles is sixteen, the summer before sophomore year, when he wakes up to his special needles knitting above him. 

“Balto?”

The half-formed animal wags its tail. Stiles remembers him, remembers the moon and Mom’s hug. This time, Balto is _huge_. Like, horse-sized huge. And he’s a wolf, not a dog. 

Stiles’ needles speed up now that he’s awake and Balto is quickly finished. He licks Stiles’ face and Stiles laughs from the phantom feeling of slobber. He touches Balto, made primarily of red string with other colors stitched in. The strings that made up Balto speak of _moon_ and _hospital_.

Stiles wishes his magic was less ghost and more corporeal so he could bury his fingers in fur and laugh. “Of course you’re Peter’s. Come on, let’s go see our keeper.”

Balto trots at Stiles’ side and shrinks to the size of a large dog to fit in Roscoe. When Stiles pulls into the parking lot, Balto grows again and bounds right through the car door. He crosses the parking lot, disappearing through the hospital wall near Peter’s section of the ward.

Stiles’ magic might keep him invisible from the nurses but, unfortunately, he can’t ghost through surfaces. He walks the familiar walk alone, wondering about the little Balto he created as a kid. He shoots Dad a text so he’ll know why the jeep’s gone when he gets home. It’s past midnight, after all.

“What the fuck, Peter,” Stiles mutters under his breath, a little cranky. 

Walking into Peter’s room feels like walking into a brick wall. Stiles forces himself through the thick air, goosebumps erupting across his skin. Peter’s dulled emotions are cranked up to the highest power and there are _so many tingles_. Every emotion across the spectrum, feelings that Stiles doesn’t recognize.

Balto’s lying on top of Peter. He’s more solid-looking than he’d been in the car, more _real_ than any creation of Stiles’, but the menacing growl echoing in the room isn't coming from him.

Cold fear slides down Stiles’ spine, freezing his lungs. He tentatively side-steps his way to his chair at Peter’s bedside, afraid for reasons that have nothing to do with physical safety.

Balto lifts his head and Stiles’ breath catches at the sight of Peter’s face.

Everything makes a lot more sense. And also doesn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and now that Peter's awake, time to get soft as fuck! depending on how lost I get in their ridiculous softness, this will probably be 5 chapters. Next chapter is Peter being comatose but fully awake & him and Stiles learning to communicate (with Balto's help) and then the chapter after that is when Peter checks out of the hospital. Then it's shenanigans of revenge and Stiles' magic and LOVE. The ending is ridiculously sappy. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the start to this story! you can find me on tumblr here at [transtilinski](https://transtilinski.tumblr.com/)


	3. to knit you an anchor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's not mentioned because Stiles is a feral magicboy that doesn't understand celebrating things but he's seventeen at the end of this chapter (Peter's Very Upset when he learns he missed Stiles' birthday)

Outside of the full moon, Peter is back to his vegetative state. He’s different, though. Stiles feels it—in the tingles, in the red string, and in his bones. 

His endless red string slows down, knitting triskelions at a lazy pace. Peter’s awakened powers must heal himself better than Stiles can. It makes Stiles anxious and mad and scared.

Peter’s supposed to _need_ him.

Balto comes over and nudges against Stiles whenever he spirals too far down that train of thought.

The magic-wolf mostly stays with Peter but sometimes he turns up in Stiles’ bedroom or even at school. It’s strange for a creation to stick around and not go off to who-knows-where or fade into someone/something. Balto’s becoming less holographic and more sentient, too. 

Stiles hopes Balto checking on him when he’s not at the hospital is Peter’s doing. On paper, Stiles is probably no different than a doctor or nurse. A (non-traditional) healer. But he’s been by Peter’s side for six years, keeping him company and going above the duties of a healer. That has to count for something. Right?

Stiles has to believe Peter is attached to him at least a _little_ bit.

It’s a silly hope. 

Stiles can feel Peter’s emotional response to Stiles’ chatting. The day after seeing Peter in all his distorted facial wolf glory, Stiles entered the room blabbering away mid-rant about something he’d been obsessing over on the drive over. It took a full minute for Stiles to understand the new tingle in the room— _confusion,_ an unpleasant ripple that made his skin itch. He clammed up and hasn’t spoken since. 

Stiles wonders if Peter’s memory stored anything Stiles said over the past years. He tries not to think about explaining the red thread of fate.

/~\

Stiles reads his history homework beside Peter, clenching his jaw to remind him that reading aloud is no longer an option. His concentration is shot to hell and his eyes keep making their way back to Peter, propped up in a wheelchair by the window.

Peter’s very handsome. He’s smart, too. The red string buzzes with gossip on Peter. He was valedictorian in high school and in the middle of his residency as a doctor before the fire happened. He’s so far out of Stiles’ league without taking into account that he’s a goddamn werewolf.

Like, how fucking cool is that! A _werewolf_. 

Stiles is a sixteen-year-old high schooler that has magic in the form of invisible strings and _knitting_. He has zero friends, has grades good enough to please his dad but lacks all ambition for anything academic, and he lives in his head more than the real world.

More than anything, Stiles wishes he could talk about his insecurities to Peter like he used to. All it takes is remembering Peter’s gorgeous, supernaturally shining eyes focused on him and all the words die in Stiles’ throat.

It's reminiscent of how he stopped talking after Mom died. He tries not to think about it like that but this new development feels like daisy chains all over again. Like he’s losing something important forever. 

Balto whines and burrows his head into Stiles’ lap. Balto doesn’t weigh anything but he can apply pressure whenever it suits his fancy. The defiance of physics is annoying when the magic-wolf sits on top of Stiles to make him go to sleep but right now his head in Stiles’ lap is grounding.

Every day Balto creeps closer to turning into a solid wolf with a reddish tint. No one else will ever see him, of course, other than Stiles and Peter.

Except once Peter fully heals, Balto might disappear from Stiles’ vision as well.

“God, would you fucking stop that,” Stiles snaps, all the words of the past two weeks pouring out of him. “It’s just angry tingles all the time! I’m going to fucking knit you a Go-Away-Anger Sweater.”

The irritation tingles that have been growing with every visit slide into amusement. The sudden shift is jarring and more than a little humiliating. 

Face flushing, Stiles turns his back to Peter, twisting his chair to face Peter’s empty bed. “Yeah, whatever, make fun of the dumb magic dude.” Stiles runs his fingers through his hair and pretends his heartache is Magic Buzzes. “I’d stop bothering you but the red string is still here so you’re stuck with me until I’m useless.” Sullenly, Stiles adds, “More useless than I already am.”

Placing his paws on Stiles’ slumped shoulders, Balto licks at his cheek. The slobber is still not-real, thankfully. It’s a ticklishly cold sensation. 

Huffing, Stiles wraps his arms around Balto and buries his face in the wolf's neck. He enjoys the feel of fur brushing his skin, and tries to hide his shaky breathing. The amusement hanging over the room has slid back to anger. It’s darker and meaner, bitter on Stiles’ tongue. Balto starts up a low rumbling growl and Stiles pulls away, thinking Balto’s fed up with him, too.

Balto retaliates to Stiles retreating by clambering into Stiles’ lap, tipping the chair over with sudden pressure. They fumble to the ground and Balto flops on top of Stiles, keeping him pinned. He licks at Stiles’ face until he finally laughs.

Pleased, Balto presses his cold nose to Stiles’ neck. It’s only then that Stiles notices the tingles have shifted once again. The amusement is back but…quiet. Soft? Stiles isn’t sure if there are tingles of anxiety along with it or if that’s just Stiles’ own emotions clogging up his magic.

Closing his eyes, Stiles pets Balto, drifting out of his body and skirting along the magic surrounding Balto, the whispers of magic that were once his strings. An image comes to him of a shadowy figure pacing this room and talking.

“I...” Stiles blinks and slams back into his body. He tightens his fingers in Balto’s fur. “Do you want me to talk?”

The amused tingles spike, bringing goosebumps to his skin. 

“I thought you were laughing at me,” Stiles admits.

The irritation returns. 

“Were you mad that I stopped talking?” 

Balto licks Stiles’ face and rolls off of him. Stiles scrambles up, heart pounding, and he grabs his chair, pulling it up close to Peter. 

He’s not ready to meet Peter’s eyes so he watches his special needles hanging above them, knitting leisurely. “I missed you.” Stiles flushes. “Talking to you. I missed talking to you.”

The amusement is definitely soft. Stiles has a long way to go in learning the intricacies of tingles—developing the talent has never mattered much before now. He constantly feels two steps behind where he should be with his magic. 

“I just feel stupid,” Stiles says. “I don’t know how to talk to you anymore.” Anxiety tingles that aren't his spike and _oh._ Maybe Peter isa little attached to him. Gaining confidence, Stiles loosens his tongue. “Like, I say _tingles_ and Go-Away-Anger and Magic Buzzes. It’s all kid words I made up but never stopped using. It’s so pathetic and embarrassing.”

Dark, bitter irritation.

“And you’re angry again,” Stiles says, throwing his hands up in the air. He fights the need to get up and pace. “I stole my mom’s aura magic but it’s not—I can’t even read the tingles right! It must _suck_ not being able to talk and I can’t do anything useful about it when I should be able to. If I could just be _better_...”

Balto clamps his jaws lightly on Stiles’ elbow and tugs. Stiles had been yanking at his hair again. Maybe he should get a buzzcut. Stiles pulls his elbow out of Balto’s mouth and angrily scrubs his fists over his eyes. Blue string around Stiles’ wrist unravels in the way his strings worked as a kid. It’s his magic controlling him instead of the other way around. 

Making sure his special needles are handling the red string, Stiles worries about multitasking in his emotional state. Magic Buzzes shake through him, giving him no choice but to address the blue emergency. His head pounds as he extends himself through magic, weaving the string that speaks to him of flapping wings. Luckily, it takes less than a minute to knit.

“Pretty,” Stiles comments, pulling out of his magic. The blue butterfly flutters before him. What matter called out to Stiles’ magic so urgently that it overrode his control?

The butterfly flies around the room and circles back to Stiles. A wave of calm flows through him the moment it lands on his shoulder and sinks inside him.

“Oh.” Stiles blinks. He’s lost in a haze of peacefulness he’s rarely felt. “This is what my magic feels like? S’nice.”

Amusement dances through the room, reminding Stiles of where he is and what’s going on.

“This hasn’t happened before,” Stiles says, frowning. “I didn’t know my strings could work on me.” Physically knitting himself magic worked, though less potent than when he made it for others. “Did,” Stiles licks his lips, “did you give it to me?”

Balto barks.

“I’ll take that as yes.” The butterfly’s calm smoothed out everything twisted inside Stiles. He’s still in a bit of a daze. “Wow. No one’s ever been able to do that.”

The tingles are...smug? Balto prances around the room in a ridiculous manner. Smiling, Stiles meets Peter’s unfocused eyes and wonders why he was ever scared. “You're okay with me sticking around?”

Balto barks. Stiles suspects the irritation tingles are Peter’s way of calling Stiles an idiot in a fond way.

/~\

The next full moon, Balto nudges Stiles to be the one to lie on top of Peter. Resting his head on Peter’s chest, Stiles listening to the werewolf's racing heartbeat. 

Strings waiting for a purpose decide they’re done waiting for Stiles to knit them. Several strings—apparently it’s not only the red that’s fond of Peter—unwind off his limbs and latch onto Peter’s arms.

It’s not something they’ve ever done before—found a purpose outside of being knitted. It’s awkward and clumsy but his strings jerk and yank Peter’s arms around until they are draped across Stiles’ back.

Mortified, Stiles whispers, “That was so embarrassing. Oh my god.”

Peter’s irritation is stronger in his charged state.

“Okay,” Stiles says. “Yeah.” He smushes his face against Peter’s chest.

Stiles is wearing a thin sleep shirt, void of his usual layers, and the pinpricks of claws against his lower back send little sparks up his spine in a decidedly not-painful way.

“Yeah,” Stiles says again. 

Something like _amusement-_ _smug_ blankets the room.

/~\

Balto leads Stiles to a secret vault under the school. It’s filled with everything Stiles failed to find online, and he’d been using his strings for extra help in Googling.

Werewolves are _amazing_. 

Stiles holds onto his excitement, refusing to give in to his swell of insecurity. Peter doesn’t need Stiles’ baggage. He sent Stiles here for a reason.

Balto pads over and drops his head into Stiles’ lap when he’s zoned out at the page on werewolf anatomy for…Stiles’ has no idea how long. Time’s never really been important to him—life is in chunks of school time, Peter time, sleep time. Balto’s sensitivity to Stiles’ dark thoughts isn’t a fluke—turns out werewolves can smell chemosignals.

Balto isn’t Peter and he’s not a werewolf but he’s something in-between. He communicates with Peter somehow.

It’s strange learning Peter knows Stiles’ feelings like Stiles knows Peter's via tingles. He’s relieved Peter understands being unable to _not_ know things, and won’t feel violated. Acknowledging tingles makes Dad go into talks about “lack of privacy”.

If Peter keeps Stiles around once he’s fully healed, maybe he can give Stiles pointers on deciphering emotions. Except, Stiles thinks, reading over the section on chemosignals, tingles are probably enormously different than scent. 

Whatever, Stiles is inferior to werewolves, he’ll get used to it. It’s fine.

Werewolves basically have super everything—hearing, strength, smell. The Hale books don’t go in-depth about healing abilities because there’s not supposed to be much to it. They get hurt, they heal. If the injury is severe, they heal an insane amount of time quicker than humans. 

Stiles is grateful he’s not with Peter when he learns about that. Balto turns into a whimpering mess from the rush of chemosignals Stiles broadcasted, full of anger and anguish.

Six years of healing _with_ Stiles’ help...the amount of pain Peter had to have been in, the extent to which he had been hurt...

Stiles finger-knits all of his emergency pocket yarn to calm down. The long snake-like cord has to be stored in a plastic bag to contain the potency of _rage_ saturated into the yarn. It goes in his Magic of Negativity Bin—mainly made up of anxiety and anger.

/~\

There are books on magic in the vault. Stiles itches to devour every word over and over again, learn real magic vocabulary. He resists, only flipping through for information helpful for Peter. He starts building a Supernatural Toolkit, adapting the constricting methods the books detail to fit his magic. 

A werewolf needs an identical version of the bullet they were shot with to burn out the poison? One, _fuck that_ , Stiles can knit his strings into anti-poison or a replica of the bullet. Two, Stiles normal-knits a bunch of wolfsbane flowers soaked in his magic in preparation to burn over potential future wounds. Also, if the possibility of being hurt is anywhere on the horizon, Stiles will weave his strings into a weapon-proof vest.

Preventive measures, bitch.

This leads Stiles to the most important information he learns—Hunters. Balto drags over the journal recording the history of Hales and various Hunter families and it’s easy for Stiles to piece everything together. 

Again, Stiles is thankful Peter isn’t in the vault. 

Stiles suspects his Magic of Negativity Bin is going to expand as much as his Supernatural Toolkit is. 

/~\

“I’m sorry,” Stiles blurts, the apology exploding from him the moment he enters the hospital room. “I was so focused on learning about you through my strings and if I had looked at my dad’s files—it’s so obvious! I should have looked into it—no, don’t be irritated with me, I’m right.” Balto’s tail whacks Stiles. Scowling, Stiles pushes him away. “Every Hunter or person involved—I’ll fix this, Peter, I promise. I’m sorry.”

Peter’s never frightened him before, not genuinely, not even with the sudden fangs on the night Stiles learned he was _more_. But then Stiles gets whiplash from the air flipping into electric rage and Balto—

Balto _roars._

Scrambling backward, Stiles presses himself into the corner of the room. The mist of tingles are like chopped onions, burning Stiles’ eyes. He’s intimately familiar with holding back tears and that's not what this is. This is…

“I don’t know what you’re saying,” Stiles chokes out. “I thought you’d want my help.”

The hair along Balto’s spine raises, everything enormous about him appearing even _bigger_. He stalks forward and Stiles flinches. Balto's growl shows off sharp teeth, deadly and so far from anything string-like. He cages Stiles against the wall and—takes on a protective stance. He's guarding.

Stiles’ special needles clatter on the floor, rolling off Peter’s lap after their sudden fall mid-knitting. The red string abandons the swirl it had started and zooms back to its tangles around Stiles’ chest. The entire knot trembles like when it led him to Peter for the first time. Stiles’ mind feels pulled in too many directions to hold a conversation but he tries—pressing his shaking hand to the red string. 

The red speaks _loud,_ hurts his head like someone screaming would hurt his ears. 

It’s many things—phantom weight against his pinky, whole body shivers that have nothing to do with Magic Buzzes, fire, faces Stiles hasn’t seen before that are full of sneering and disgust—but what clicks most is an image, fuzzy because it’s imagined and not from memory, of Stiles tucked tightly inside a knitted red blanket.

Swallowing, Stiles thinks before he speaks. The electric air is _rage_ but the onion-like quality to the tingles is underlying _desperation_. Stiles can’t begin to understand this foreign fear for _him,_ and the baffling depth of it.

“I want to help,” Stiles says. He talks fast before Peter can freak out again, promising, “But I’ll be safe. I won’t do anything without you. I can just find the information on who. I swear on my mom’s grave I won’t track anyone down alone—I promise on my strings.”

Balto’s growling peaks in an almost-bark before fading. The volatile tingles falter slightly. 

Stiles can’t not push now that he’s been given an inch. “I’ll bring the files and my laptop here tomorrow.” He reassures, “I’ll only work on it when I’m with you in this room.”

The irritation is sharper than the soft fondness Stiles has become used to but he’ll take what he can get. 

/~\

It’s trials and errors but creating the list of who is responsible behind the fire isn’t too difficult. It would have been _much_ easier if he could have worked outside of the hospital but he promised Peter.

He also gets side-tracked from the vendetta by working on Peter’s mental stability. Peter’s _disgruntled-grumpy_ tingles—Stiles is slowly parsing through Peter’s language of irritation—make Stiles hide a smile. His worries about his magic being immature are all but forgotten. 

“You should have seen this coming,” Stiles snarks. He maneuvers Peter into the Go-Away-Anger Sweater gently. “I warned you I’d make it. I haven’t waited six years just for you to go feral on me, Peter.”

Stiles read about Omegas. He knows from his few social interactions at school that he doesn’t exactly have tact but he at least knows not to explicitly bring up pack until Peter’s less… _volatile-fragile_. Outside of revenge, pack is only hinted at in terms of insanity.

The only part about Peter having blue 'wolf eyes that Stiles cares about is that it means he's not an Alpha. An Omega isn't a death sentence but...it also sort of is. Not that any of that matters because Stiles has been managing Peter's shit mental health for ages and going feral is simply out of the question. 

Urges pulse through Stiles to cross his arms and purse his lips. The unexpected pass-along-message from the red string has Stiles nearly falling apart in laughter. “Are you _pouting_ at me?”

Balto, watching them from the bottom of the bed, gives Stiles a downright sulking expression with narrowed eyes. The urge for Stiles to cross his arms grows stronger. 

Stiles flops down on top of Peter, newly dressed in Go-Away-Anger, completely useless to do anything but laugh. Other than Balto’s cheering up tricks, Stiles doesn’t think he’s laughed like this in…He doesn’t know if he’s ever laughed like this.

It’s not a sad realization—he’s always made himself laugh and found amusement in magic and chatting to comatose Peter but this is…

It’s bright sunshine of lovely warmth combined with the affection of someone pressing their hand to his forehead to shade his eyes.

/~\

Stiles reads more about pack bonds after a full moon where Balto has to lie on top of Peter again. Stiles was still needed but he had to be a safe distance away from gnashing teeth and twitching claws. He curled up on the pillow above Peter’s head.

Stiles worries that without him and Balto, Peter will go on rampages during the full moon. He hasn’t gained back daily mobility, yet, but with every moon, the power of his ‘wolf grows. In a werewolf moon-craze, Stiles is confident that Peter can power through getting up and moving no matter how much it will fuck him over in pain and further injury the morning after. It’s especially likely for Peter to attempt to now that they have their hit list and a few of the henchmen live in Beacon Hills.

Peter isn’t allowed to lose himself as an Omega. Stiles won’t allow it.

Similarly stubborn about keeping Peter, the red string offers Stiles flashes of a dozen faces. It repeats two faces in particular, a boy about Stiles’ age and a girl a few years older than him.

The Hale fire is a mystery to Stiles, having happened some time after Mom’s death. His memory is completely blank starting from her funeral to him meeting Peter. He’s heard snippets of school gossip referencing it, usually cruelly indifferent about the tragedy. He knows someone other than Peter lived, something about _what a shame that hottie skipped town._

Stiles finds it in the parts of the files he rejected as irrelevant—Laura and Derek Hale. Peter’s niece and nephew. They hadn’t been in the fire at all.

Knitting one of his strings into a bloodhound the size of his fist, Stiles begins his search on his laptop. In ten minutes, his bloodhound hops off his keyboard and evaporates, revealing windows upon windows overlaying each other. Stiles clicks through them, sorting methodically through bits and pieces of information. 

The Hale runaways attempted to stay under the radar with different names and constant moving. However, no one can escape what other people post online. And no one can escape Stiles’ magic. 

Stripped down to what matters, Derek’s attending NYU, tagged in several Facebook photos, and Laura works at a bakery close to campus. 

New York. All the way across the country.

The two Hales are older than the memory-images the red string flashed, Peter's last reference point of them.

Stiles needs more than finger-knitting. He pulls out his plastic lanyard strings. The first few stitches and lacing of a new lanyard annoys the shit out of him. It’s good for taking his anger out on, which is why there are way too many keychains in his Magic of Negativity Bin.

_Why do I know nothing about them_ , Stiles finally allows the floodgate open as his fingers fly with movement, yanking hard with every stitch to cinch the plastic strings together tightly.

Save for a handful of days here and there, Stiles has been by Peter’s side every day for more than six years. He’s watched a number of nurses come in and out of Peter’s room. 

Not once has Peter had a visitor. 

There’d been a couple of times where someone started to walk into the room and Stiles, pre-Peter werewolf wake-up, had been scared a family member was coming to take Peter away. But it was a fluke each time, someone else’s visitor who got the wrong room number.

By the time Stiles’ lanyard’s finished, he’s emotionally exhausted in the way that panic attacks usually leave him. He spares a glance at his laptop. He’s too disgusted to magic-knit his way into hacking the hospital records to see if there’s a call history. As far as he’s concerned, they abandoned his Peter. 

Reflexively, Stiles presses his hand to his chest, remembering how mad his red knot had been the night of his hacky sack nightmare.

/~\

With Derek and Laura as dead ends, Stiles goes to investigate the ruins of the Hale house. 

The thing with tingles—or empathy, Stiles guesses if he has to get technical like the vault’s magic books say—is that it leaves _imprints_. Over six years have passed and the tingles of the Hale house remain strong.

It’s too much for Stiles to go within a hundred-foot radius of.

Alright, _error,_ Stiles thinks after he wakes up from his tingles-blackout on the forest floor. 

No big deal—he'll try a different angle to accomplish his goal. It will be a crazy commitment to an exhausting amount of mistakes but once he figures it out—and he _will_ —it’s going to be the best goddamn thing ever. 

/~\

“Nag, nag, nag,” Stiles says, climbing into Peter’s bed. He’d like to pretend he doesn’t know what Peter’s irritation is about, but he’s improving at tingle-language—empathy, whatever. When he picks up an emotion fast, he gets hints of pride from Peter. 

Stiles is kind of addicted to it. 

It’s not his fault it’s the only emotion that tastes _sweet_. Like cotton candy that fades too fast on his tongue.

Stiles won’t admit it but being forced to nap is worth the burst of sweetness he got from connecting an entire message together. The heavy air had been _disapproval_ and the slippery quality of the irritation meant _worry_ and the metallic taste in his mouth didn’t represent blood but actual metal, a solid weight for an opinion or command. Peter knows Stiles is sleep-deprived, is upset about it, and wants him to sleep.

“Why aren’t you prancing?” Stiles grumbles at Balto. This is supposed to be Smug Bastard time. Instead, Peter’s _fond-irritated-impatient_. 

Stiles glances between Balto trying to tug the Sweet Dreams Blanket off the bed and Peter sitting in his wheelchair by the window. Stiles has always napped beside Peter. Stiles says, “But you didn't want to lie in bed.”

Peter is somehow both fonder and more irritated.

Stiles absolutely hates the way his cheeks heat up. “I’m _not_ sleeping in your lap!”

Eyes firmly shut, Stiles ignores the softness in the _amusement-smug_. Balto hops onto the bed and worms his way under the blanket.

/~\

They don’t speak about Stiles magic-knitting Self-Esteem for Peter.

Admittedly, a mirror might not have been the most _subtle_ symbol to knit his strings into…

Peter can’t see Stiles’ strings but his irritation zeroed in on Stiles as soon as his body absorbed the mirror. The _vanity-content-acceptance_ of the mirror had been a tad stronger than Stiles intended. Or more accurately, Peter is more perceptive than Stiles wants him to be. 

Peter catching onto Stiles trying to be sly isn’t the reason they don’t speak of it—it’s what Stiles said next, flustered and unapologetic.

“Stop being a whiney piss baby about your looks,” Stiles snapped. “It’s just wasted anger! You’re so handsome it’s annoying!”

Peter can’t talk with his mouth but the startled tingles were equivalent to a silence where you can hear a pin drop.

Peter _thinks_ about it, Stiles knows. There’s the dark shadow of Peter obsessing over his burn scars but now it’s cut off by _amusement-fond-smug_. Peter’s suspiciously respectful to the Do Not Speak Of It, not pushing the emotions onto Stiles to tease him.

Stiles hadn’t known life could be so embarrassing. He understands insecurity embarrassment, like his magic compared to werewolves, but even that is weird for him—caring about someone’s opinion. 

Peter is handsome, it’s a plain fact, what is there to be shameful in stating that?

It’s the way Peter reacts that’s opened up the door to a whole world of humiliation that Stiles previously had the pleasure of never meeting.

It’s like an overload of pride sweetness. Stiles doesn’t know what to do with it and it makes his stomach squirm and _that_ makes Peter’s amusement have the _laughing-condescending_ tint that means Stiles is being made fun of and—

Peter’s lucky Stiles likes him so much because dealing with this for _months_ has been torture. 

/~\

Balto follows Stiles everywhere. 

It’s been a gradual process of him spending less time at Peter’s side with every month that Peter heals. They’re coming up on the eighth full moon and Balto’s always underfoot, going so far as to try following Stiles into the bathroom.

Stiles drives to the craft store and buys a shit ton of various types of red yarn. He knits two rings, pettily ignoring Peter’s genuine irritation as Stiles knits while staring intently at Peter without blinking or talking.

Stiles slides one ring on his middle finger and the other one on Peter’s thumb. He grins and crows a petty _HA!_ at the instant transferring of tingles. There isn’t a magic string connecting the rings but if Stiles extends his mind through his magic, he finds a thin line of tingle-mist from one ring to the next.

“Creeping is a two-way street, Peter,” Stiles taunts.

The constant feed of Peter’s emotions takes awhile to get used to. He acts annoyed when Peter learns how to project specific emotions. 

Stiles has no answer for his science teacher demanding to know what’s so funny when he bursts out laughing in the middle of a lesson. Stiles giggles too hard to properly breathe and he can’t exactly say his magic-ring pinged with what feels like fingers tickling his ribs.

Stiles hadn’t knitted the rings as a two-way connection but he focuses on projecting _annoyance_ , hoping Peter will get it. 

Tingles of smugness bounce back. Balto, unseen to the rest of the class, prances around the front of the classroom.

At least Stiles knows Peter’s safe, even if he is an asshole.

/~\

The first time Stiles walks into Peter’s room to find him standing up, Stiles screams. If his magic didn’t cloak his sight and sound, nurses would be barging in here with a cavalry.

“You’re, that’s, how, I’m,” Stiles splutters. 

Pride—not the sweet kind for Stiles but a smugness of salted caramel—and pain tingle in the air. The pulses of _aching_ Stiles thought he was imagining through their ring connection intensifies.

Stiles gasps as he connects the dots. “That’s why you’ve been in pain! From secretly practicing—you—you fucker! Do you know how stressed I’ve been? I _sewed_." Stiles waves his bandaged fingers. "I made you that weird wheelchair cushion by sewing together a bunch of _potholders_ for different types of pain relief! And—and I’ve been string-knitting healing triskelions in my classes!” 

Peter cocks his head at Stiles’ rant. At the end of it, he responds with a softly enunciated, “Thank you.”

Stiles’ knees buckle at the two words and he has to press back against the closed door to stay standing. His brain is slow on catching up with the weight behind the words, still trapped in hurt that’s now tangled in confusion. “What?” he asks.

“I’ve been practicing what first words I wanted to say to you,” Peter says. Slowly, he repeats, “Thank you.”

Strings shake restlessly up and down Stiles’ body. His red knot stays in place, his special needles not coming out, but the end of the red string glides down Stiles’ right arm and wiggles around his wrist in a comforting gesture. 

Peter— _Stiles’ Peter_ stands at the edge of his hospital bed looking achingly soft with his hair curling at the end by his ears and wearing the first sweater Stiles had knitted him. Stiles has no idea how Peter got it—that sweater had been in the back of Stiles’ closet, a weak error for Power-Boost. The blue-green color goes well with his eyes.

His eyes that focus clearly on Stiles without any werewolf electric-blue help. 

_Without help._

Peter’s not even leaning against the bed for support. Stiles is the one who can’t stand on his own.

“I must admit,” Peter murmurs—and _god,_ he’s _talking_ with _words_ , maybe that’s why Stiles can’t understand, “I thought your reaction would be more excited.”

Balto presses against Stiles in his _time to herd the human_ nudge, but nope. Nope. Stiles is never leaving this door. Ever.

“You’re upset.” Peter frowns and—oh. He’s scenting the air. “You smell angry but,” Peter taps the red ring, “this feels like betrayal.”

Stiles should have never opened the two-way connection. 

Balto nudges him to no avail. 

Peter steps forward.

“Stop,” Stiles blurts out, his voice wobbly and too loud.

Stepping back immediately, Peter radiates emotional hurt along with the tingles of physical pain.

“I,” Stiles' throat clicks. He swallows. “You’re in pain. The—the walking, it hurt you. It’s not, not that I don’t want you. I mean, don’t want you stepping toward me. Not that I don’t _not_ want you, I do want you, but not like—I don’t mean _want_ you, like, I mean—”

“Stiles.”

The tingles are _soft amusement_ and that’s—that’s familiar. That’s normal. Stiles clings on to that and sucks in a large inhale of the emotion, soothing the back of his throat. Blue string materializes over the red on Stiles’ wrist, unspooling onto the ground, and it shocks a small smile out of him. “Are you making me a butterfly again?”

“The making is all on your part, sweetheart,” Peter says, sitting down on the bed.

Stiles half-shrugs, face heating up at the hint of _sweetness-pride_. “It’s nothing special.”

Balto catches Stiles by surprise, finally sending him tumbling forward a step. With no wall to press back against, fighting Balto is impossible. In a handful of seconds, Stiles falls into Peter’s lap.

“Sorry,” Stiles says, grabbing on to Peter’s arm to pull himself up, “sorry.”

Peter’s hands settle on Stiles' hips. “Don’t be. How’s this any different than you lying on me during the Full?”

Stiles doesn’t have a concrete answer to that other than it just _is_. Pushing the issue will just be more embarrassing so Stiles resigns himself to minimal squawking as he's directed into properly sitting in Peter's lap.

Peter’s arms wind around Stiles’ ribs, holding him in a way that the _frustrated-disgruntled_ tingles communicate isn’t tight enough. Plastering his chest to Stiles’ back, Peter says, “Triskelion.”

Stiles stretches his neck backward, resting his head on Peter’s shoulder. He feels hazy, like the time with the butterfly. The blue string lies limp on his wrist, no butterfly made, so this fuzzy feeling is all Peter. “Huh?”

Peter chuckles, mildly shaking Stiles’ body like his growls do. Maybe this isn’t so different than the full moon after all. Stiles certainly is the same sleep-drunk he is on those nights.

Peter’s breath is hot against the side of Stiles’ neck as he repeats, “You’ve mentioned triskelions, darling.”

_Sweetheart. Darling._ Peter’s voice is...well, Stiles never imagined how it would sound other than nice.

It’s way better than just _nice_. 

It tastes expensive, like the chocolates Dad got after winning the Sheriff election, a rich and creamy taste, not dark chocolate, no it’s soft and milky. At least, that’s how his magic categorizes it. Stiles isn’t quite eloquent with putting things into human words. 

Medium-deep voice spoken in a quiet way that’s not born from shyness but rather like honey—wait, no, that’s magic-speak. Suave?

“I’m lacking in magic-speak," Peter murmurs, "but I’d say your voice is like a blueberry.”

Stiles’ magic doesn’t communicate with Stiles often outside of his strings but its most definitely judging Peter’s blueberry comment. _Blueberry._ The fuck does that mean.

Stiles is less judgmental and more horrified that he said that all out loud. There’s that familiar tightness in his lungs over that he always ignores for Peter’s sake. He can wallow over how pathetic he is on his own time. 

“I like blueberries,” Peter says. He’s all over Stiles, arms wrapped around him, hands splayed wide to cover as much of Stiles' abdomen as possible, his face turning to press into Stiles’ throat.

Balto barks. Stiles is too boneless to startle.

Peter’s sigh sends a small shiver through Stiles. “You’re right. I’m being overwhelming.”

It takes several moments for Stiles to connect that Peter’s talking to Balto. Stiles does that frequently but hearing Peter do so is endearing in the silliest way.

Stiles’ eyelids are drooping and he’s distantly aware of Peter moving them horizontal. Stiles ends up half-draped on top Peter.

“Butterfly,” Stiles mumbles.

“Good.”

Stiles’ eyes are closed but he feels his strings reaching out and twining around Peter’s arms, helping Peter cocoon Stiles in a tighter hold. The red string thrums with Stiles’ joy at Peter correctly translating butterfly to _peaceful-content-this-is-nice-yes_.

Stiles drifts to sleep with Peter saying something about Stiles needing to be taken care of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> stiles, a fucking vortex of magic and power: i am inadequate. do not even deserve to be in your presence. a supernatural embarrassment  
> peter, an omega werewolf: fucking excuse me?
> 
> peter, a fucking idiot: im going to practice regaining mobility but hide it so that I'll be super impressive  
> stiles, just barely managing the idea of not being needed: FUCKING WHAT?
> 
> stiles, a fucking idiot, hearing that he "needs to be taken care of": wtf 'taken care of' like kill me????
> 
> So, this end scene is in March around the time of the unmentioned worm moon when canon Peter resurrected himself. The slower healing of Peter's timeline in this fic has a reason, I swear. Stiles' b-day is Valentine's Day because I think that's funny. 
> 
> Up next we have Peter checked out of the hospital and romance! and plot! and romance! I got WAY lost in the soft. I probably should have left the last scene for the next chapter but I couldn't help sneaking it in, partly because the blueberry comment has had me laughing for a week now and I need Peter's dumb comment posted. They talk about it in the next chapter but Stiles' sleepiness is the pack bond between them solidifying.
> 
> Thank you so much for the loveliest comments!!!! I really was so close to tossing this fic in the garbage and I'm very blown away but how much people enjoyed it and I have reread the comments a bunch of times so thank you. I hope this chapter is a treat <3


End file.
